


Solid Grounds

by Kittyknowsthings



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - All Media Types, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, GFY, Relationship Negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 09:20:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24468619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittyknowsthings/pseuds/Kittyknowsthings
Summary: The five times Aziraphale threatens divorce - and the one time Crowley tries.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 51





	Solid Grounds

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to herebewyverns for letting me borrow the name and idea of Nybbas!

**Endangering a Book**

The first time Aziraphale spoke the words, Crowley's heart stopped.

"If you put that wine glass down there, I'll divorce you," Aziraphale had said, with a sudden sharpness to his tone that made every muscle in Crowley's corporation, including the abovementioned heart, tense.

Fortunately, he didn't actually _need_ his heart, but it was still a very disconcerting sensation.

Then, very slowly and carefully, he turned his head to see that he had, in his drunken state, missed the coaster (which already showed several small wine stains) and nearly put down his glass on one of his Angel's priced first editions instead.

He gulped.

After sobering up just a little, to avoid any accidental splashing, he set the glass down on the coaster, exactly in the middle.

He barely dared to try breathing when Aziraphale got up to move the book out of danger, and in fact chose not to move a muscle until the Angel had sat down again and seamlessly picked up the thread of their conversation.

Only then did his heart start beating again, faster than before.

**Making (too much) Mischief**

The next time, Crowley was actually sober for it.

It did not help. When he had picked up Aziraphale at the bookshop, the angel had already been in a foul mood - from what Crowley could gather, a customer had not only attempted to buy one of Aziraphale's favourites, but also had the audacity to suggest the angel develop an "online presence" to allow potential buyers from a greater radius to rifle through his inventory.

The restaurant he'd picked - one of the little hole-in-the-wall ones Aziraphale always seemed to find for some reason - was close enough, so they walked.

Crowley let Aziraphale rant all the way there, only making the appropriate noises here and there - he'd long since learned how to let the Angel's outrage wash over him.

Food would, he hoped, take his mind of things.

Except Aziraphale, whose countenance had lightened back to his usual sunny self when setting eyes into the establishment, tensed again within seconds of stepping into it, the storm clouds returning twofold.

"They _didn't_ ," he muttered darkly, in a way that not only made clear that the unidentified "they" had, in fact, already committed whatever atrocity he was referring to, his outrage only kept quiet by his sense of propriety.

Crowley scanned his environment quickly, but could not pinpoint the cause of Aziraphale's anger.

"Alright there, Angel?" He asked warily.

Wrong question, apparently, given the angel only gave him a withering look and did not dignify it with an answer.

Aziraphale settled in his seat in huffy indignation.

"Good evening, Sirs" the waiter greeted and dropped off the menus.

Crowley barely gave his a glance, far more interested in finding the reason for Aziraphale's frustration.

It did not take long.

There was an infernal squeaky sound that kept reverbrating through the restaurant.

"It's terrible, isn't it?" the Angel said softly, sounding surprisingly sympathetic, when Crowley flinched at a particularly loud noise.

Now that he actually knew to pay attention to the other diners' place settings, he realized the restaurant had apparently replaced their plates with ...

"Are those roofing tiles?" Crowley asked, wondering for a moment if a delivery had gone wrong as he watched cutlery scrape against dark grey as opposed to the customary ceramic.

Aziraphale badly suppressed a shudder. "Slate. Newest trend in Gastropubs."

"I know, it's great, right?" the waiter gushed, proving he had been ... eavesdropping on their conversation? "It's so much more modern! Much better than boring old plates! What can I get you?"

He failed to notice Aziraphale's smile, automatic upon seeing a waiter with a notepad, had turned rather stony, his voice clipped as he ordered.

Crowley ordered his usual black coffee and tried to come up with something to cheer up his angel.

"Want me to make them forget we were here, find somewhere else?" he offered.

"I'd rather just eat," Aziraphale said, sounding resigned, and Crowley felt rage flicker up in him.

Trying to tease the angel about the possibility of an online store only earned him a long-suffering look, as well.

He waited until a waitress had delivered Aziraphale's meal, of course - the angel's fingers seemed somehow extra prim as he plucked one of the paper napkins out of its holder and unfolded it into his lap - before making his move.

Crowley perused his options - there. A balding businessman with a wedding ring, Lust with a patina of sticky shame barely simmering under the surface.

Hands of his far younger dining companion conspicuously bare.

Perfect.

All it took was a little flick, and the rather rude waiter slipped, the slate plates he was carrying shattering on the floor and spilling a gratuitous amount of sauce onto a hem and shoe.

A small poke to the businessman's burgeoning rage made sure his date's fluttery attempts to appease him would fail.

He looked around for his next target when –

"Crowley, that is _quite_ enough," Aziraphale said, his voice sharp.

"Come on, angel," Crowley wheedled, "they had it coming and you know it."

"The waiter?"

"Was rather rude, eavesdropping on us like that."

Aziraphale seemed ready to concede that point, at least.

"And the man whose outfit you ruined?"

"Was about to commit adultery."

"The loss to the restaurant?"

"They'll obviously quickly come to the conclusion that slate makes for terrible serving plates, return to their old standard, and gain in popularity," he said, quickly adding a nudge to that effect.

"What of the wasted effort of the cook? The enjoyment of the other diners?"

Well, Aziraphale had him there.

"Er, I could ..." Crowley looked frantically about for an idea, but Aziraphale had obviously run out of patience.

"If you do a single thing to disturb my meal further, Crowley, I'm divorcing you."

Crowley clutched his coffee cup with both hands and barely dared to look up at the angel's face for the rest of dinner.

If he had, he might have noticed Aziraphale looked somewhat stricken.

**Reckless Driving**

So fine, they might have left a bit later than originally planned, but the way Aziraphale kept checking his pocket watch was frankly insulting.

They were an Angel and a Demon, and the Bentley had yet to let them down when it came to safely taking them where they had – or wanted – to go.

"Could you perhaps slow down a bit?" Aziraphale asked in a particularly sharp curve and, as Crowley noticed out of the corner of his eyes, started wringing his hands. This was just getting absurd, now - first worried about being too late, and now about his driving speed as well? "The streets are quite wet and slippery and–"

"And nothing! Come on, Angel, Live a little!" Crowley said, hitting the accelerator even harder with a wide grin. The Bentley's radio started the stomp-stomp clap of "We will rock you" in agreement.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale's voice hit a certain shrill note that made the demon pause; "Slow this car down right now or I'm divorcing you!"

The demon gently smoothed the Bentley down to a more cautious speed, turned off the music, and kept up some carefully casual chatter the rest of the way.

When they finally arrived, and Crowley was about to get out, a hand on his own stopped him.

He turned to Aziraphale, who looked ... contrite?

"I know you like driving fast, Crowley, and that you're very good at it, but if we - if either of us gets discorporated now, getting back home will be ever so much harder, and that scares me," Aziraphale admitted, and now Crowley felt like an utter heel.

The Bentley started the tinkling piano chords of "love of my life", at half its usual volume, in apology.

Aziraphale gently patted the dashboard.

"I know you do your best to keep us safe, my dear, I just ... I just worry so."

Crowley's heart, structural integrity already weakened at hearing the angel say "home" like that, melted into a puddle. He pressed a soft kiss to Aziraphale's forehead.

For his angel, he could drive a bit more carefully.

Stick to only five miles above the speed limit, or something.

**Keeping Secrets (of the Potentially Dangerous kind)**

First came the seeking spells - weak enough to be bouncing off the Bookshop and the Bentley entirely, but surprisingly clever and aimed at him, personally.

It had once been the standard way to gain a fellow demon's attention politely – well, as polite as demons ever got – before Hell had started to adapt to human progress, using phones and electronics to make contact instead. The metaphorical knock on the door.

Next came the occasional sense of an unfamiliar demonic presence – never near the bookshop, and they stayed further away when he was in Aziraphale's company.

The times he felt it soon showed a pattern, which again strengthened the gut feeling that whoever was doing it was trying to be noticed.

Crowley chose the space of confrontation carefully. Mayfair, not Soho. A sparsely lit alley, full of hiding spots at night, but a church nearby, if he had to flee.

There, the bounce of the seeking spell, then the presence, closer this time.

"You wanted my attention? You have it now. Do not force me to make you regret it," Crowley drawled with a confidence he tried to also feel.

The demon who stepped out of the shadows in front of him, however, looked far more terrified - practically shaking like a leaf.

"C-Crowley, Sir?"

They held themselves awkwardly in their corporation, as if they weren't quite used to it yet.

Crowley, however, would be blessed if he let his guard down this easily.

"Who's asking?"

"Nybbas, Sir." The demon bowed to him. Crowley blinked in surprise, glad the tell was hidden by his sunglasses. Now that he hadn't seen in some time. He kept his voice impassive.

"Nybbas?" Not a name he was familiar with.

"Temptations Department, paperwork grunt. It's how I knew your sigil. But I'm not here for, uh, business reasons."

"No?" Crowley raised an eyebrow.

What personal reason could an unknown, minor demon have to seek him out?

He stared them down.

"I ... had a friend. Before the ... before the War."

The way they capitalized the War made it absolutely clear which one he meant, and which word they were avoiding, and Crowley's second eyebrow rose to join the first. This was NOT what he expected.

"I know they didn't fall, I paid attention to that, but ... that's all I know for certain. I wish to make a deal, for you to ask your ... associate if they know what became of them."

"That friend of yours, do they have a name?"

Nybbas lifted one hand and clearly telegraphed their movement towards their pocket, waiting.

"I have it written down."

Crowley made a "go ahead" sort of motion, and the demon indeed pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, held it out to him with a trembling hand.

His hand quick as a pouncing viper, Crowley snapped it up and took no satisfaction when the demon flinched.

Just as they had said, it held a name written in Enochian - not one Crowley personally was familiar with, but then, there were indeed ten million angels.

"I want to know if they're ... still alive. Maybe what they're doing, if possible. But mostly just if they are ..." Nybbas' voice was small, uncertain, then pulled up their too-long sleeve to check a clunky watch.

"I have to go, before anyone notices I am here," they said. "I'll be back here same time next week, Sir, prepared to deal."

"See you next week, then," Crowley said before he could think twice of it. A week was plenty of time to plot an ambush. But then, a week was also plenty of time for him to prepare.

Nybbas bowed again and rushed off.

Crowley followed the demon at an unobtrusive distance to the nearest spot of greenery, where they sunk straight downwards.

Crowley stared at the little mound of disturbed earth, then the piece of paper in his hand.

Well, then.

Time to fess up to his Angel.

But he was not going in unarmed.

"Oh, pastries!" Aziraphale said, delighted, and immediately dug into the box.

He moaned at the first bite, and Crowley firmly reminded himself to stay on topic. The Angel pulled back to admire the filling.

"So I had a visitor from downstairs today," the demon started, oh-so-casually.

The hand holding the pastry paused shortly before Aziraphale's mouth.

"Are you hurt? What did they want?"

"I'm fine, Angel." Crowley had to admit it was gratifying to see Aziraphale set the pastry down, forgotten, and rush to him, feel the angel run his hands over his arms and shoulders, seeking physical reassurance he was hale and healthy. "Not a feather out of place, I promise. They just wanted to talk."

"Talk about what? And how did they find you in the first place? We've warded the bookshop and the Bentley up to the hilt - and your flat as well, little as we see it nowadays ... how could we not have noticed?"

"Well ... I did notice," Crowley admitted, winced. Really, really had to get better at communicating. "Started a couple of weeks ago" He shrunk from the Angel's glare. "It's still habit to try and ... protect you, when I can. And their locating spells were weak, if persistent - and ... positively polite. I wanted to find out who it was and what they wanted before worrying you with it."

The icy look his husband gave him conveyed without words that that was going to be addressed later, at length, once the more pressing matter was resolved.

"What did they want, then? And who was it in the first place?"

"Minor demon by the name of Nybbas. Paperwork Grunt. And they claimed they wanted ... a Deal." Crowley was still trying to wrap his head around that.

"What kind of deal?" Aziraphale asked, obvious unimpressed with the stalling attempt.

"They asked me to ask you for any information you might have regarding the well-being of an ... old friend of theirs."

"How on Earth would I be able to help them with that?"

"Because that friend was, apparently, from Before. And didn't fall with them."

Aziraphale's eyes widened.

"You mean this demon wants my help to find ... their angel friend?" He spoke slowly, as if tasting the words on his tongue.

"Find if they were still alive, I think. Don't think they'd dare hope for more than that."

"So, what kind of deal did you make, exactly?"

"None. We didn't have the time to draw up a contract, time to slip away unnoticed is limited downstairs. Nybbas gave me the name - not one I knew - and rushed off, said they'd be back same time, same place next week."

"That could be a setup," Aziraphale said, hesitantly.

"Could be," Crowley said, took a breath, then continued, softer this time. "Might however ... not."

"We shall prepare for either option, then?"

"I think so," Crowley said, and pulled out the crumpled piece of paper, handed it over.

The angel smoothed it out between his fingers, his eyes widening in recognition.

"Yes, I do know them!"

It felt, curiously, like Hope, and Aziraphale's smile was a fragile thing, but it was there.

He set the paper scrap down on his desk as if it was a precious artifact, secured it with a paper weight, then pulled Crowley into a hug, burrowing his face in the demon's neck.

"If you ever keep this kind of secret from me again, I'm divorcing you. Is that clear?" Aziraphale murmured into his skin, clutching him tight.

"Crystal," Crowley responded, hugging back.

They stayed that way for a while, just because they could.

"I'm sorry," Crowley whispered and pressed a kiss to Aziraphale's hair.

Aziraphale pulled back, looked him straight in the eyes.

"You better be," Aziraphale said, his hands on Crowley's upper arms, but there was no heat in it.

The demon pulled off his sunglasses. "I'll make you some cocoa," He said.

The angel put on his reading glasses. "Let's get started, then."

**Hogging the Blankets**

Crowley had wrapped himself into all the blankets on the bed, a nice and proper cocoon - an entirely necessary measure to preserve what little body heat he produced in this dreary weather.

Said necessity, to be entirely clear, had _not_ been not his fault.

This was his Angel's fault, because his Angel had told him to go on ahead and claimed he would be "Right behind you, dear, just going to finish this page", which was, as any avid reader knows, not going to happen.

Ever.

One does not simply stop reading at the end of a page. Or a chapter. The lure of just a little more was always going to win, and even more so with an Angel who did not technically need sleep, and only had gotten into the habit in the first place because he appreciated cuddling with his sleepy, snuggly husband in bed, especially on what he called cozy winter nights.

Pointing this out to Aziraphale, however, as all loved ones of avid readers also know, had been entirely fruitless.

So really, if the angel had wanted to have some of the blanket available, he should have come along immediately, or asked Crowley to wait with him (and most likely remind him of his resolution to stop at the end of the page once he had ACTUALLY reached the end of the page).

Instead he had not only finished this page, but also the following five, rinsed and put away his cocoa mug, taken off the absurd amounts of layers he wore on a daily basis by hand (the buttons alone!) and changed into his flannel pyjamas (tartan, of course, and once more with an entirely unreasonable amount of buttons).

Which had left Crowley, who changed his clothes to his preferred pyjamas with a snap of his fingers and was done, entirely too much time to try and get comfortable all on his lonesome.

"Really, dear?" Aziraphale said, staring at Crowley, or rather at what little of his husband he could see, which mostly amounted to a shock of red hair, a pale forehead, and a pair of golden eyes peeking out from a tangle of blankets that seemed to have neither beginning or end.

"You took aaaages. I was COLD."

"At least make some room for me, then."

Crowley first gave an inefficient wiggle, then finally remembered to pull up his legs first, then to curve forward, and repeat.

"Oh," Aziraphale said with apparent delight reminiscent of his days posing as a gardener, "a caterpillar!", and patted the blankets right where Crowley's butt was currently raised into the air underneath.

Crowley interrupted his trek towards the edge of the bed to turn around further than a human skeleton should have allowed and give him an unimpressed stare.

"I'm not a caterpillar. I'm a snake."

Then he decided to flop right where he was, which really ought to leave plenty of room for Aziraphale anyway. The bed was big enough. He had picked it out, after all.

"Don't snakes slither side-to-side, my dear?"

"But then the blankets come untucked!" Crowley said, the tone of his voice suggesting the blankets covering his face up to the nose was hiding a pout.

"That may not be a bad thing," Aziraphale mused, "because then I could actually find my way in there with you."

"Should have come to bed earlier, then. If you wanted to be in the blanket pile with me. "

Crowley's slightly raised eyebrow dared Aziraphale to object to this factually correct statement, because whatever excuse the Angel would come up with would likely be very amusing to pick apart.

Aziraphale conveyed that he was well aware the demon was entirely right with the tilt of his head, but the lines around his eyes added that he still did not appreciate the fact Crowley was pointing this out in the slightest, and that awareness of the fact did not come with willingness to admit to said fact out loud.

The slight tensing around his mouth, however, made Crowley pause in something resembling apprehension, even more so when Aziraphale raised his chin.

"Crowley, if you don't share the blankets with me, I'm divorcing you."

Crowley furrowed his brows and slightly reared back his head.

Aziraphale not only raised an eyebrow, but tilted his entire face to emphasize.

Crowley acquiesced and, with an entirely REASONABLE amount of grumbling, thank you very much, squirmed until the blankets granted admittance to a far too self-satisfied Angel.

It was cozier with him, anyway.

**\+ 1**

To Aziraphale's delight, London was covered in a soft blanket of white when they woke up.

The snow seemed straight out of a picture book, and even the inevitable slush on the streets seemed less gross than usual - Crowley suspected Adam's influence.

It was pretty, he supposed, and also provided a lovely excuse to stay inside.

Of course Aziraphale immediately had to ruin that particular plan.

"We should go to St. James! The ducks will have ever such a hard time finding food, in this!"

"There's a reason they don't migrate, angel, and that's because they get plenty, here."

A little pout was forming on his face, and Crowley knew this battle was lost one way or another, so he sighed, if fondly, and made sure there would be hot mugs of cocoa waiting for them when they got home.

He put on a sufficiently warm woolen coat, a pair of sunglasses, stole one of Aziraphale's scarves - a soft, dark red - and still had enough time to stare out of the shop front window in dismay at the absurdly fluffy snowflakes drifting down.

Aziraphale, who had gotten dressed in absurd amounts of layers the classic way, found him at the door. His eyes were shining in excitement. "Now all you need is a hat!"

Crowley recoiled.

"Covering up this hair" - he ran his hand through said hair in a way he had perfected over several hours of practice in front of a mirror so it would look both casual and not destroy his effort of styling it - "would be a crime against good taste."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

"And Frostbite on your ears wouldn't?"

"I'm not going to get frost bite that quickly. Besides, I don't even own a hat," Crowley said, hoping that would end the argument.

"I'm sure I've got something here that ought to fit," Aziraphale muttered and, entirely unbothered by Crowley's stylistic concerns, started rummaging about in a drawer that held several umbrellas and a variety of fall and winter accessories that he usually passed out to deter would-be customers coming in to escape sudden rain- or snowfall, lest they linger and then feel obligated to attempt to buy something.

The knit beanie he pulled out of a drawer with a gentle "ha!" and then held out to him eclipsed the demon's wildest fears.

It was blue. Not even a dark, reasonably dignified navy blue, but a bright, cheerful sky blue, only just dark enough to contrast with a snowflake pattern in a creamy white. The ribbing had two elongated sections, like a pair of slightly - only infinitesimally - less tragic ear flaps.

To top off the indignity, the hat had a big pompom, made out of the same blue and white woolly and likely terribly soft yarn that made up the hat and which wiggled as Aziraphale shook his hand in emphasis, as if the demon hadn't spotted his offer yet.

Crowley took a step back, his hands raising as if to ward off Good.

"Honestly, dearest, there is no need to be so dramatic" Aziraphale said, making for him and lifting the hat in what Crowley found a most menacing manner.

"If you dare to put that - that atrocity on my head, I'm divorcing you!"

The words hung between them, and Crowley wished he could take them back immediately, stuff them into his mouth and swallow them down so they would never see the light of day again.

"I mean," he tried, quiet, but Aziraphale started talking at the same time, at his usual volume, which swallowed his own mumble entirely.

"Alright, then."

Crowley froze. This time, his heart did not stop. It beat hard and fast and loud and directly in his throat.

Aziraphale – who was smiling, how was he _smiling_ right now? – stepped even closer, his chest pushing back and trapping Crowley's still-raised hands between them because his body, as ever, yielded to the angel on its own account.

Aziraphale pulled the hat down over Crowley's miraculously product-free hair, covering his ears, and then arranged a few strands in the front to cover the sliver of forehead the hat left free in a way that he might call fetching and Crowley would later admit did not look entirely horrible.

Then he dropped his hands to the demon's and clasped them, gentling them down and down until they hung between them. didn't let go, just shifted so he might hold them more comfortably,

"We could have a Spring Wedding, next time?"

Aziraphale's smile turned into a smirk for a moment he before leaned in to press a tender kiss to Crowley's bottom lip only - on account of the fact Crowley's jaw had just dropped.

"Ready to go?"

Crowley leaned in to kiss him, because how could he not, after that, and then he of course had to kiss that far too smug look of the angel's face, and to kiss him again just because he could.

Finally, he released one of Aziraphale's hands, turning the other so their fingers could intertwine, and together they stepped out into the snow.

**Author's Note:**

> And ever after, when one of them is cross with the other, they passive-aggressively start to plan their next wedding instead! 
> 
> Fellow fiber crafters – yes, I totally did jinx myself and am going to be making that exact hat once it cools down enough for me to be willing to handle merino without melting!


End file.
